The Drunkard and The Old Man
by LuxaLucifer
Summary: When he had first met the man so many years ago, when he was the Hero of River Dane still, the resemblance to Maric had been uncanny. Now there was almost none of that in the unwashed, unshaven drunkard before him.


Alistair and Loghain meet in a tavern. Minor spoilers for Inquisition.

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><p>No one recognized him when he went into a tavern anymore. A blessing, even if it was a small one. He tried to remember the ones he had, just as he had nearly memorized the letters his daughter sent him, few as they were.<p>

His body ached as he approached the tavern's proprietor, ordering himself a large ale. He was old. The oldest Grey Warden in Orlais, he was often reminded. Like he could forget with the insistent creaking and groaning of his limbs. He tried not to overdrink, but sometimes the weight of his actions was a little too heavy. Even after ten years.

He sat down with a little effort, wishing he could afford the luxury of taking off his armor. He needed to polish his sword as well. It was a Warden hand-me-down, as was everything else he owned these days. The thought depressed him, so he reached for the first swig of his ale and debated on ordering the stew.

"A Grey Warden, huh?" The words brought his attention back to his surroundings. He looked up to try and find the person who said them.

A blond man, hair tinged with grey, met his gaze with eyes so bleary he had obviously been drinking. He would have bet that the man had been drinking for longer than just this day. He'd thought bars had limits for this sort of thing.

"Yes," he said. Then he recognized Alistair Theirin and his heart nearly stopped.

When he had first met the man so many years ago, when he was the Hero of River Dane still, the resemblance to Maric had been uncanny. Now there was almost none of that in the unwashed, unshaven drunkard before him.

He was finally beginning to understand what the Hero of Ferelden had given up to give Loghain his chance at redemption.

"You know," began Alistair loudly, so anyone in the bar could hear if they had a mind. "I used to be a Grey Warden."

The man was wearing a collection of old armor, some of it rusting. His hands were calloused and bruised, so much so that Loghain guessed that Alistair was working as a farm hand or something similar. There were deep bags under his eyes and he had lines that he should have been too young to have. Loghain's chest ached at the sight.

He prepared for the drunken rage Alistair would inflict on him. Even as old as he was, Loghain was confident in his ability to best a man who looked like he'd been in a drunken stupor for the entirely of the last decade.

"Ever hear' of me?" asked Alistair. "I helped the Hero of Ferelden figh' against the Blight. That is, until she betrayed me and all that shit. I was a prince you know!"

"Yeah, yeah," grumbled one of the bar patrons. "We've heard it all before."

He didn't recognize Loghain.

"It's true," he heard himself say. "I know of the man. Alistair Theirin."

"Oh?" said Alistair. "You know me? Do they still talk about me even now? Guess I really am as brave as I say!"

"They talk about how you ran off because you couldn't take your Warden giving another chance to the traitor Teryn," said Loghain evenly. "And how you've only been seen drinking since."

He was sure that would bring the recognition. He expected it to flicker in his eyes, for the man to stumble over and hit him hard in the face. Something like that, at least. He was wrong.

"How do you know so much 'bout me?" grumbled Alistair.

The other patrons were starting to get annoyed with the conversation they were having so publicly. Alistair was too drunk to tell, but Loghain could see the shift into irritation. He'd gotten a room at the inn across the street, and if he needed to, he could use it.

"If you're so dead set on knowing, then come outside," he said, voice hard. He was setting himself up for a fight, but he couldn't leave now. Maric wouldn't have left now.

When they were out on the street, Loghain turned to Alistair, gripping his shoulder roughly. "What do you think you're doing, boy?"

"I'm not a boy," said Alistair, growling.

"You're acting like one," he snapped. He hadn't used that tone for a long time. Back when Cailan was a child. Or perhaps when he was an adult. Anora hadn't often needed to be talked to like that, ever.

"Who do you think you are, exactly?"

Loghain didn't know what to say. He knew what people thought of him. He knew who the Grey Wardens believed him to be. What he thought of himself though? That was a different matter entirely.

He was going to tell him, get the bullshit charade over with, when Alistair passed out on the street.

He couldn't exactly leave him there.

When Alistair woke up, Loghain was sitting in the chair across from the bed. He was awake. He'd spent the night in the chair, actually, spending most of it restless and silently grumbling. He was too old to let a younger man sleep in his bed for an entire night. He'd bet coin that Alistair didn't wake up with sore limbs and an aching back.

He wondered how long it had been since Alistair was sober. He'd forced a potion down the man's throat while he was sleeping so he wouldn't wake up drunk. Oh, he'd have a hangover. Worse than normal. Loghain wouldn't take that away if he could.

"Where am I?" groaned Alistair, sitting up after several minutes of incoherent grumbling. He looked even worse in the daylight.

"An inn in Ferelden," said Loghain roughly. He didn't bother to lower his voice and was a little amused at Alistair's wince.

"I figured, thanks," said Alistair. "Who are you?"

"I had too high of an opinion of you if you can't figure it out when you're sober," he said, crossing his arms.

The look of shock in Alistair's face wasn't as satisfying as he'd wanted it to be. He was a little surprised when Alistair didn't immediately lunge for him. That would had made things simple.

"What do you want?" he said. "Did the Wardens send you? Some big joke to punish me further?"

"I'm not here for the Wardens," he said sharply. "They've forgotten about you. It's been a decade. More important things are happening than looking for the washed up Theirin."

"Then why are you here?"

"You picked a fight with me," he said. "Then you passed out. I let you sleep on my bed, which, quite frankly, I am too old for."

"Why?" said Alistair in disbelief, bleary eyes wide with confusion.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I didn't want to leave you out in the street."

"You have before," said Alistair, fingers clenching in rage. There was the anger he'd known would come. "You did this to me before. You left me out to dry when you abandoned us at Ostagar, and all those men died."

"I know," said Loghain. "Maker, I know, dammit. What do you want me to say? I knew then, and I've had a decade to think about it."

There was a pause. Alistair didn't look any less angry. Loghain found that he wasn't feeling sorry or ashamed, but more upset.

"You know what you people never talk about?" he hissed. "You know what you never bring up? You all talk about my betrayal at Ostagar. For all that Fereldens pretend to hate slavery, you never seem to care that it was me, that _I _allowedRendon Howe to have those Tevinters let into the city to enslave those people- but none of you care, because they were elves. None of the accusations I have had spat at me involve that, none of the backlash. You think you are all so flawless, but you focus the lesser of my mistakes."

"That's not true," said Alistair quietly. "At the Landsmeet-"

Loghain began to pace, alight with frustration.

"You brought it up because it was more evidence against me," said Loghain viciously. "You brought it up because it further your case, you real case, of my so-called treachery against the Grey Wardens at Ostagar. Well here's the thing, Alistair Theirin, son of Maric. I have spent the last ten years with the Wardens. You have not."

He felt drained, empty, chest heaving when he was finished. His face was stretched in a snarl. Alistair was taken aback, grip on the sheets loosening.

"I am tired," he said. "I am sixty-four. You could have been in my place. You should have been. Everything that I've done, you could have done. Likely with less injuries. Likely with greater success."

"Don't you think I know that?" said Alistair quietly.

"If you know it, go back," he said. "Go home, back to the Wardens."

"They wouldn't want me back," said Alistair, a self-pitying look in his eyes that Loghain knew all too well. "I'm useless to them like this."

"Then stop drinking and get back in shape," he snapped. "I could beat you in a fight and I'm old enough to be a grandfather."

"Who knows?" said Alistair. "Anora's still got hope, right?"

"Don't talk about her like that," he said, temper flaring. "Regardless, I wouldn't know. This is my first time back in Ferelden in eight years."

He leveled is gaze with Alistair, forcing their eyes to meet.

"I don't have time for this," he said. "I need to get moving." He would neglect to mention Corpyheus and his own current problems with the Wardens. Alistair did not need to know about that; he had not earned the right.

"You're just going to leave me here?" said Alistair, sounding disgustingly like a small boy.

"You're a grown man," he said. "If you don't want to be alone, I'd go to Amaranthine. You'll be able to find a Warden or two to bring you home."

He stood, preparing to pack his things and leave, but Alistair beat him to it, legs still unsteady.

"I'll go," he said. "Get your ancient self some rest tonight and then get to whatever fancy business you've got. Maybe I'll…see you. Around."

That was as good as he was going to get, Loghain knew. He nodded curtly.

Maybe Maric wouldn't hate him as much as he thought.


End file.
